Writing is a notoriously bad life decision if one has goals of either financial security or sanity. Kafka worked in an asbestos factory to pay the bills. Jack London sailed to Alaska to join a gold rush, where he developed scurvy and lost four teeth. Cheryl Strayed was a New York Times bestseller and on a book tour for Wild when…

It was supposed to be every writer’s dream when a Hollywood film producer bought the option to adapt my memoir for the big screen. Love with a Chance of Drowning was due to publish in three months time but the love itself was drowning. Quickly. Painfully. Publicly.

I haven’t updated my blog in a while and I think I owe you an explanation of what is going on right now. I feel really bad complaining about this but, you know, that’s what blogs are for, right? A mass dumping of petty complaints onto faceless strangers?

When you’re working on something unconventional, something creative and uncertain, it can be disheartening to feel like you’re not producing enough, not getting the numbers, not earning the money. And where is this thing that you’ve been spending all your time on, hmm? It doesn’t exist yet. Will anything tangible come of it?